if you want me to (i would've followed you)
by KelseyO
Summary: You could've left it open-ended, could've not mentioned Finn at all, but you figure making it a yes-or-no question is easier on the both of you. / She's handed you the microphone, and for maybe the first time in your entire life, you want desperately to push it away. (An exploration of the "On My Way" hallway scene. Title from "Say Something" by A Great Big World).


Because A Great Big World decided to write the most painful song in the history of all things, and because anyone who says they're over "On My Way" is a big fat liar.

Also, I'm so sorry. (Sort of.)

* * *

_Say something, I'm giving up on you  
__I'll be the one if you want me to_

.

You are woefully unprepared when you round the corner and see her walking several yards ahead, because even though these words have been burning a hole in your esophagus for far longer than you care to admit, you will never, ever be completely ready to let them into the open air.

So you start off simple. "Hey, how do I look?" you ask, and hope your carefully even tone doesn't warrant an answer like _desperate _or _terrified_. "Coach Sylvester gave it to me earlier and I couldn't resist." You rest your hands on your hips exactly like you used to when you wore this uniform and pray that she can see, _feel_, how different everything is between the two of you now.

"Well, I'm glad you're happy," she replies without missing a beat. "Everyone deserves to be happy."

You don't really understand why she says this, because you didn't tell her you were happy and you didn't mean for anything you just said to suggest you were happy; what you do understand is that _Everyone deserves to be happy_ feels like invisible shackles against your pulse point, cutting off your circulation, rubbing your skin raw.

Maybe you should just get to the point.

"When you were singing that song... you were singing it to Finn and only Finn. Right?"

You could've left it open-ended, could've not mentioned Finn at all, but you figure making it a yes-or-no question is easier on the both of you. She just needs to say one word, one syllable, and everything can end (or begin) right here, right now—no more bullshit, no more brutally honest advice that will go completely ignored, and no more plastering on a smile through another obnoxiously verbose monologue about aspirations and soul mates. You can stop letting yourself read into those looks she gives you, stop hoping this whole thing with Finn is some elaborate episode of _Scare Tactics_, stop waiting for her to say the words you're so certain have been on the tip of her tongue for months.

Just one simple answer.

But of course, she can't allow things to be so simple. Rather than use her voice, she nods; the tiniest, most mechanical single nod you've ever seen, one that relieves not a modicum of the tension in your chest.

But it's still a nod. It's a yes. It's an answer.

It's _the_ answer.

You suck in a ragged breath and instruct your autopilot to perform the speech you've already carefully worded, should this be the response you receive. "He really does make you so happy," you say in the voice you've heard your mom use with her real estate clients. "I want to support you, Rachel—and Finn—" Your throat thickens, and you wonder why the hell you put his name in your speech. "And come to the wedding. If it's not too late?"

Her smile is big and kind of breaks your heart, but she's also shaking her head and you wonder if she's about to tell you what an idiot you are for falling for all of this, that of _course_ she would never marry Finn, and would you please allow her to serenade you with a Christina Perri song right here in this damn hallway?

You keep wondering as she pulls you in for a tight hug; wondering if she'd rather whisper it in your ear, or if she's so afraid of how you might react that she'd rather not have to look you in the eye as she says it. You'll be patient, you silently promise her.

(You've been so, so patient.)

The hug continues, but so does the silence, and the only thing you wonder now is if your smile is still convincing.

. . .

You assume the footsteps behind you are anyone's but hers, because it would be too absurd a coincidence if you both ended up alone in this hallway right now, but then you hear that voice that's gotten so much gentler over the years.

"Hey, how do I look?"

It must be a rhetorical question, you think, because she can't seriously be under the impression that she ever looks less than stunning—but as you turn to face her and you drink in the sight of the familiar red and white spandex, you're not sure you could give her an answer even if you wanted to.

Her hands are planted firmly on her hips and it reminds you of glares and slushies and awful nicknames; but then you look a little closer and think about the Yale acceptance letter, about that smile you've been seeing more and more often, and you decide she might look more like a superhero.

"Coach Sylvester gave it to me earlier and I couldn't resist," she explains.

You wonder why she was so eager to slip back into her old skin, and why she walked right past Blaine and Kurt but initiated a conversation with _you_. Maybe she wants a chance to start over, to go back to the very beginning and create happy memories where there used to be hostile ones.

Maybe she's in the mood for a do-over.

"Well, I'm glad you're happy," you manage, because that's what she's trying to tell you with this, right? That she finally has Yale and the glee club and her status, all at the same time, and that she's happy. "Everyone deserves to be happy."

You say it because it would be a perfect segue into some sort of important-ish speech, should she be looking for an opening in which to give you one.

She doesn't. "When you were singing that song… You were singing to Finn and only to Finn. Right?"

You're frozen now, because this wasn't how you expected it to happen. She's been so vocal lately, with all of her advice about sex and your future with Finn, and you kind of counted on that escalating rather than vanishing completely.

She's handed you the microphone, and for maybe the first time in your entire life, you want desperately to push it away.

You think back to the show, to the music and the words and the crowd and you do remember looking up at Finn a few times, but you also definitely glanced at her more than once. It could've been out of habit, to make sure your choreography was in sync, or maybe you were just trying to convey how proud you were that she nailed the notes she'd been having trouble with during rehearsals.

Plus, _here's to us_ could have any number of meanings, platonic or romantic, so she's really just making this a lot more important than it needs to be.

And yet you find your neck muscles responding to her inquiry in a very nod-like fashion, and suddenly you feel like Ralphie in _A Christmas Story_ after he agrees with Santa that he'd like a football for Christmas: you're not sure how everything went so horribly wrong, but you know it's critically important that you climb back to the top of the slide and make sure he _understands_.

(You may be Jewish, but you watch it with Kurt every year and appreciate the _Wizard of Oz _references every single time.)

But before you can blurt that you want an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range, model air rifle, there's a big black boot pushing you away.

"He really does make you happy," she says—there's that word again, and you're not sure you understand what it means anymore. "I want to support you, Rachel—and Finn—and come to the wedding, if it's not too late."

The last five words don't make you think of courthouses or diamond rings; instead it's Metro North passes and her eyes burrowing into yours as she talked about letting go and starting your future.

A smile spreads across your face, though, because maybe she's only saying this so she'll still be close to you, so she'll have more chances to question your decisions, more time to convince you that this is all a terrible mistake. It might not be such an awful thing, you decide, to have her there for the ceremony; maybe her master plan is to speak up during the _speak now or forever hold your piece_ bit, to make this chapter of your story as dramatic and poetic as the rest.

You shake your head at her blatant ridiculousness and wrap her in a fierce hug, because you two have been doing that a lot lately and you really like the way her arms make you feel: safe, anchored, admired.

Only, this time they're different. Her hold on you doesn't match its usual strength, but her fingers clutch at your jacket like it's her life preserver in the middle of the ocean. You wonder what that's all about, if it's because she's worried; and if she is, and if it's for the reasons you think, then why is she dragging this out so much? It's ridiculous for her to suffer through all of this stress when she could so easily just say it now, rather than waiting until you and Finn are at the altar.

_I want to support you, Rachel—and Finn—and come to the wedding, if it's not too late._

Nothing about that combination of words makes sense anymore, and you hope your cheeks dry before she lets go of you.

.

_Anywhere, I would've followed you  
Say something, I'm giving up on you_


End file.
